


Inside Out

by Axis2ClusterB



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Axis2ClusterB/pseuds/Axis2ClusterB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One moment changes everything, and time moves on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> Set in some gray space that I've imagined between the end of BDS and the beginning of BDS 2.

-1-

Murphy’s been burning with fever for four days now, the air around him hot with it as he screams out his delirium. Connor changes the dressing just under his brother’s right clavicle three times a day, gagging at the smell of infection and the sight of blood and yellow-green slime that comes out with the gauze he’s been using to pack the wound. He broke into a pharmacy the night after the shooting, when Murphy started getting all hot and glazed over, stole a bunch of little penicillin capsules and Percocet tablets which he’s now patiently poking them down Murphy’s throat, ending up covered in recycled water and half melted medication more often than not. Murphy’s stomach is rebelling against everything, even the small amount of water required to swallow a pill, and never mind anything that could be vaguely considered nourishing.

Last night, Connor saw thin red lines beginning to radiate outward from the place where the bullet slammed out of Murphy’s chest, death following the delicate tracework of veins toward Murphy’s frantically beating heart, and he felt his own heart go cold in his chest. He started breaking the capsules open then, pouring the powder itself down the back of his brother’s throat with Murphy fighting mindlessly the whole time, yelling hoarsely until Connor fully expected the flimsy motel room door to be kicked in by cops, SWAT team descending and Murphy so sick he’d have almost welcomed it.

Murphy’s still tossing restlessly, eyes wide open and unseeing, but Connor thinks that he’s a little quieter, skin a shade less burning hot and he puts aside the thought of liberating some syringes and injectable antibiotics from the grimy state hospital a few blocks over. When Murphy’s eyes finally close, the burn of exhaustion in Connor’s gets the better of him, and he curls into the hot curve of his brother’s body to sleep.

-*-

“Hey.”

Warmth.

“Oi, Connor.”

Slow awareness, returning on Murphy’s weak voice.

“Connor, I’ve got to take a fucking piss, so you bloody well better move. Now.”

Connor pulls himself the rest of the way up, into a sludgy, still-exhausted consciousness that allows him to push himself up onto one elbow so that he can look down into Murphy’s gray, pain-lined face. Murphy’s hair is black with sweat, the pillow and sheets under them soaked with it, proof that the infection’s breaking and the fever’s leaving and Connor takes his first relieved breath since it all got shot to hell. “How you feeling, then?” he asks, bringing his hand to Murphy’s face, and Murphy twitches irritably away.

“I have got to take a fucking piss,” Murphy repeats, each word slow and deliberate. “And if you don’t get your bony ass offa me and get me to a bathroom, I’ll do it on you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Connor mutters, but he’s moving, untangling the two of them and struggling slowly from the bed. Murphy’s body is heavy against his as they shuffle toward the small bathroom. Murphy’s fingers are clumsy, and the ones on the right hand don’t work right at all. Connor can see it on Murphy’s face, the fear and frustration that this is it, but he won’t acknowledge it.

“Can’t—“ Murphy gets out, and then Connor’s hands are there, helping get the thin material of Murphy’s shorts out of the way and Murphy closes his eyes, because to be this weak just isn’t tolerable. Murphy leans against Connor as he pisses, a thin stream that doesn’t seem worthy of Murphy’s urgency, and Connor doesn’t tell him that he’s spent the last few days puking anything that made its way into his stomach.

The trip back to the bed seems even longer, Murphy stumbling now, until Connor practically has to carry him, and still Murphy’s panting by the time Connor heaves him back onto the thin, hard mattress. By the time Connor gets him sponged off, Murphy’s semi-conscious at best, floating on a haze of Percocet and talking softly, low voice a fluid muddle of languages. The wound in his chest is still hot, the skin around it shiny and tight, but the red lines have receded, and Connor lets himself sleep again.

-*-

Another day and a half passes before Murphy asks suddenly, “Where’s Da?” and Connor knows the surprise in Murphy’s voice is because it honestly hasn’t occurred to him to ask before now. Since Rocco’s death, everyone who isn’t one of the two of them has become transient, slightly less substantial and even though neither of them will ever actually voice it, that feeling of ‘less than’ applies to Il Duce, too.

“Dunno,” Connor says, settling on the rickety little chair by the bed and lighting a cigarette. “He stayed with the girl while I hauled your ass out the back door.” Which doesn’t really cover it, does it? The sirens wailing, distant still but getting closer as Murphy murmured soft comfort to the little blond girl, holding her with more gentleness than even Connor knew he possessed as the two men who’d taken her and used her bled out on the filthy carpet and Il Duce urged Murphy to just put her fucking down because the cops were almost fucking there and they had to get out and…

And that’s when it all went to hell on the sharp scent of gunpowder, the little girl’s limbs just beginning to lose some of their terrified rigidity when the right side of Murphy’s chest suddenly exploded, fine red mist covering the girl, her scream and Murphy’s bleeding into the one ripping from Connor’s throat, second gun blast almost right on top of the first and that one’s the sound of Il Duce’s gun delivering justice to the woman they hadn’t even known was in the house until she’d fired on Murphy.

“Talked to Smecker,” Connor says, concentrating on the thin gray smoke so he doesn’t have to think about Murphy writhing on the floor. “Da got out of the house just as the cops were going in. We’ll catch up with him once you’re better.”

“Who shot me?” is the next thing Murphy asks, and Connor closes his eyes against the stab of pain, Murphy screaming and falling and bleeding in front of him.

“Some fucking woman,” Connor bites out. She had been skinny like a junkie, all paper skin stretched over sharp bones and probably ten years younger than she looked, remnants of soft blond beauty barely visible under years of heroin and abuse. “Probably one a those sick fucks’ girlfriend.”

“And we didn’t even know she was there,” Murphy says softly, and that’s the part that makes Connor flinch.

“Pretty fucking sloppy,” he agrees, but he won’t say the next part, the part both of them are thinking, because it’s Murph’s to bring into the open or bury; Murph’s because he’s the one they got shot.

“Maybe we’re getting arrogant,” Murphy says, staring at the water-stained ceiling. “We watched the house, we shoulda known someone else was in there.”

“Aye.”

“Thinking nobody’s good enough to take any of us down, and some fucking drugged up junkie bitch damn near kills me.”

“Aye,” Connor says again, watching his brother watch the ceiling.

“Bullet go straight through?” Murphy finally asks, and Connor shakes his head.

“Part of it got lodged. I dug it out,” he says shortly, and that’s all he’s ever going to say about it. He can’t think about it any more now than he could while he was doing it, digging at the hole in Murphy’s chest with a red-hot knife tip as Murphy screamed and bucked under him, crazy with pain and blood loss as even more poured from him.

“Cried the whole time, didn’t you?” Murphy asks, and Connor snorts.

“Like I’d fucking cry over you.”

“Poured buckets, eh? Y’great nance.”

“I can always put a bullet in the other side,” Connor offers. “Give you matching holes.”

Murphy grins, stretches, then winces when the wound in his chest pulls. “Think I’ll pass.”

-*-

“So’re we gonna keep goin’ then?” Connor asks later, when it’s dark and they’re together on the hard mattress. Murphy stiffens against him, just a little bit, but it’s enough to give Connor his answer for now.

“Just got a fucking hole blown in my fucking chest,” he says. “We can talk about it later, yeah?”

“Yeah, Murph,” Connor says, stroking his fingers through Murphy’s dark hair. “Whenever you’re ready.”

-2-

And so they don’t talk about it. They leave the city instead, retreat to a cabin that Smecker owns in the middle of nowhere. Murphy’s pale and pained and quiet for a full three months, the wound healing slowly and badly. The antibiotics that Connor’s insisted on play hell with his stomach, make everything taste wrong and his gut roll in slow, heavy knots.

The Percocet becomes less about pain management and more about way-of-life and getting through the day, so Connor sees Murphy through a quiet and painful withdrawal. It’s after that that Connor begins to see glimpses of his brother peeking out of Murphy again, some inane smartassery or the quicksilver blade of his smile, and both are beauty to Connor.

Summer slides down into the blood-red leaves of fall, and nothing’s said, nothing changes except that Murphy wakes up screaming like he hasn’t since they were kids, and he shakes against Connor in the aftermath and won’t let him in, like he hasn’t since they were kids, and Connor doesn’t know what to do except keep his silence.

-*-

“I’m ready,” Murphy says. It’s winter and there’s ice on the ground; they’ve been here for six months and Connor’s teaching himself to play guitar just to keep busy the fingers that are used to cleaning guns.

Connor puts the battered old acoustic aside and looks over at Murphy, bundled in a blanket on the hearth, in front of the fire. “Eh?” he asks, and Murphy rolls his eyes.

“I’m ready to go back to it,” Murphy says, and Connor feels it clench around his heart, the image of Murphy going down under him, Murphy bleeding, Murphy screaming.

“No hurry, y’know,” he says, and he thinks his voice is casual but Murphy’s rolling his eyes again.

“I won’t break, Connor,” Murphy says. “I’m almost as good as new.” The right shoulder and arm are stiffer than the left, the fingers of the right hand not quite as dexterous as they were, but for the most part, Murphy’s right. As good as new.

Well, except for the nightmares that wake him screaming and sweating three nights out of every four, and the fact that, for some reason, he won’t let Connor kiss him, touch him, anymore.

“Da said—“

“Da said no hurry,” Murphy finishes impatiently. “Connor, I’m as fixed as I’m gonna get. I miss the fucking city, I miss the job, and I’m ready to go back.”

“Murph—“

Murphy’s turning his back already. “Why the fuck’re you arguing with me?” he asks. He’s not hanging around, though, already halfway to the small bedroom that they’ve been sharing and it’s really just as well, because Connor doesn’t have an answer for him.

-*-

“Let me help.”

Murphy’s packing awkwardly, holding the duffle open with his left hand and shoving clothing in with his stiff right. The already-tight muscles that Connor can see through Murphy’s thin robe get even tighter with the offer. “Can pack myself.”

“You’re a stubborn fucker,” Connor growls, snatching the bag and pushing clothes inside, and he’s just as sloppy as Murphy is even though he won’t admit that his hands are shaking.

“Fucker,” Murphy bites out, shoving at Connor’s shoulder. “Get the fuck outta my shit.”

“Something you don’t want me to see, then?” Connor goads, and he has no idea where the fuck that came from, only that it’s rooted in Murphy’s face closing down after the nightmares, in the absence of Murphy’s hands on him. “Hiding things, now?”

“You’re completely fucking off your nut,” Murphy says, his voice getting flatter as Connor’s rises. “Absolutely bloody fucking daft.”

“Fuck you, Murphy,” Connor snarls. 

Murphy’s sudden and furious, in Connor’s face as he screams, “Fuck me for what, Connor? Fuck me for getting shot and nearly fucking dying? Fuck me for *not* dying? Fuck me for being bored off my goddamn nut out here in the middle of fucking nowhere, with you mother-henning me?” and it cuts Connor off dead, that look on Murphy’s face, pain and fear and something else, something deeper than both and Connor reaches for him, reaches again when Murphy’s good hand knocks his away, and then again after it hits him that Murphy’s face is wet.

Murphy stops fighting then, suddenly pliant against Connor and he’s screaming out the sobs, shaking, and all Connor can do is sink to the floor with him and hold his brother close.

-3-

“We’re still going back,” Murphy says later, his voice thick. “Fucking tomorrow, Connor.”

Connor kisses him gently, then harder when Murphy hesitates and Connor thinks he might die from it, from being so close to his brother and missing him as completely as if he were gone. Connor bites down then, slides his teeth against the softness of Murphy’s lower lip and Murphy moans, the kiss becoming rough, two sets of teeth scraping against each other, tongues impatient. The hesitation’s burned away as Murphy shoves Connor to his back, going with him, pressing Connor into the mattress with his thigh pushed against Connor’s cock, giving him something to move against and Connor takes it, rubs himself against what’s offered, and he’d beg if he still had a voice.

It’s rough and hard, hands brutal and hips bruising and teeth drawing blood like it always is after a fight, even if the fight is just the two of them and not really a fight anyway. Connor screams when he comes, and that’s really the good thing about the middle of nowhere, that he can scream his brother’s name and not have to bite it back, bite his lips, bite Murphy’s shoulder because it’s just them here, just the one of them, the whole that they’ve always been meant to be.

Murphy doesn’t close his eyes when he comes. He slams himself into Connor one last time and then holds Connor’s eyes, lets Connor see with everything burned away and Connor gets it now, sees it, sees the fear for what it really is, and it’s not fear of his brother for himself. Of course not, because that would be too easy, wouldn’t it, and when have they done easy?

It’s fear for Connor, fear of being in Connor’s place, fear of seeing his brother hurt and diminished and screaming and bleeding and dying, because that’s what they’re heading for. Death, for both of them, because one follows the other and that’s how it always has been.

-End


End file.
